Ninjas don’t jazzercise

…..to keep the thunder out of their thighs.

……….For that they kick tons of ass.

Ninjas don’t diet

…..as a way to stay fit.

……….Badass assassinations keep ‘em thin.

Ninjas don’t sweat to the oldies

…..to be free of ass fat foldies.

……….Airborne flipping is better than Richard Simmons’ moves.

Ninjas don’t jazzercise.

…..or freaking diet

……….or sweat to no oldies.

Ninjas

kick

ass.

…..Which is wonderful exercise.

Good god… when is the last time I left my apartment? I don’t mean for a walk to the nearby grocery store for milk or whatever. I mean really went out, did something either productive or fun or funductive (combining words can be fun)… It’s probably only been four days or so, but it feels like FOREVER. Yes, I’ve made decent use of the time, getting some work done, but, really, I’m going stir crazy!

Why am I trapped in my apartment? Well, I suppose I’m not technically. First there was the crazy LA rain that made me want to just stay in, and now that it’s sunny again, I’ve been feeling under the weather and figure I should take it easy and let my body heal via drinking beverages with vitamin C instead of alcohol, getting decent sleep, and just generally taking it easy. I predict by tomorrow I’ll be feeling back to normal… at least I hope so. Right now I’m so antsy and bored that it’s making my skin itch. Ack! Just… TRAPPED.

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Conan went out with a great show, and this final speech is wonderful. Yes, I realize that this whole story isn’t important in the grand scheme of things, but the sentiment here is indeed important and well said.

From Thursday, January 21, 2010:

Tonight the electricity went out, and I realized how plugged in my entire life was. It went out during Thursday night TV, which sucks because I was really looking forward to Community, Parks & Recreation, The Office, and 30 Rock. That’s right: all four of those shows. A full, exciting, productively evening… a two hour block of comedy DENIED me… well, until tomorrow when, one assumes, the electricity is back on and I’ll be able to watch them all on Hulu. Guess that’s something to look forward to.

But, honestly, there’s not much for me to do now. I’m forcing myself to write, which I’ll be able to do until my computer battery runs out or I run out of things to type… guessing the battery will last longer.

I have one tiny candle. It isn’t producing enough light to read… not really. I have a flashlight, but it’s this little keychain one. I have to hold onto the button to keep the little bit of light going. I could try to read by that, but it might just be frustrating. Yeah, I’m that lazy.

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Ninja with a mustache,

your hairy lip aids you in the kicking

of ass.

-

Whatever your reason for growing your ’stache,

it works for you.

I say this true blue.

-

Show off your ’stache,

and cut a ’stache hole in  your mask…

In fear your enemies will bask.

-

Show off that sweet hairy lip…

Oh! And when you kick,

remember to pivot with your hip.

-

Look, put that razor down.

Without that godgiven ’stache,

you look like an child clown.

-

Ninja, sweet mustchioed ninja,

you beautiful bastard,

don’t ever give up the dream.

-

Shaving your lip,

won’t make your enemies scream

… in terror.

Writing is way too difficult for me – when one considers the fact that I claim to be a writer (when not claiming to be a robot superhero). Some folks just have so many damn ideas and don’t have time to get them all out. That fascinates me. Oh, what a problem to with which to valiantly struggle!

When I was younger it was different. I remember in junior high school, maybe seventh grade, we had creative writing assignments. The teacher, Mrs. Smith (who always had a large cup of soda on her desk… how I wanted some of that soda… I often imagined it was Mountain Dew), gave us a minimum word count for each story. I don’t remember what that word count was, but I always went over it. I asked if it was okay to do this, which seemed to surprise the teacher – and my fellow students. They had no idea why I wanted to write more than necessary. I wasn’t sure either. Then I thought about it and came to a conclusion…

Writing is loads of fun.

And it continued to be for such a long time. I started writing epic adventure stories loosely based upon me and my best friends Nate, Tadd, and Patrick (who also doubles as my brother)… well, based upon us if we were somehow vaguely descended from Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and, strangely, Inspector Clouseau (which I misspelled “Clueso” – an accident at first, but then I decided to keep it that way because it was all “Clue? So?” … so clever).

The stories were not really inspired by the Sherlock Holmes adventures. I read Author Conan Doyle’s stories, and I had a ridiculous love for the movie Young Sherlock Holmes (still do, kinda), but the stories I wrote were really just putting me and my friends (or absurdly exaggerated versions of us) in crazy adventures that barely qualified as mysteries. Lots of non sequitors, silly action, and goofy dialog – mostly done to make us all laugh.

Handwritten stories in spiral bound notebooks was my technique. Sometimes the length of a story (or “book,” as I called them) was dependent on the notebook, actually – a sign of quality?

I’d wake up before school to write (or draw), and then write when I got home. So, while it seems difficult nowadays, it must not have always felt that way. I mean, even right now, I’m thinking, “I promised around 600 words every Monday, and I do not want to let down my reader!” I’ve gone from a footloose kid who just had to write, filling notebooks with silly adventures, to this crotchety old cuss who has trouble blogging.

This might not be the best subject for a blog, actually, but… well, it might be interesting to read about a writer who has trouble writing. I don’t know. Is it?

My hope is that by writing these blogs, I’ll get the writing muscles stronger again, and that’ll help me get some of my enthusiasm for the writing. And with that, hopefully I’ll start doing it more consistently and more… better…er… more betterer.

It just takes more discipline, I suppose. Back when I was writing stories with pencil, getting that magical graphite all over my left hand as a sign of having written, I had far less distractions. I mean, typing on the computer as I’m doing now, I have the internets right at my finger tips! How many times have I checked my email then drifted off to other sites before remembering that I’m writing this very blog? I’m not sure of the answer, but it’s definitely happened more times than it should. (Appropriate number of times for this to occur: zero.) It’s just so easy to do. I’m fighting the urge to check my Twitter page now. (I hope you’re not fighting similar urges for your own Twitter or Facebook or whatever else the kids are using to crap out often inappropriately personal info to a worldwide audience while reading this, dear reader, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.)

This is just another writerly discipline issue, though. So! I must write more and stay focused on my writing while writing!

My interest in this whole Leno vs. Conan thing isn’t some misguided worrying about the financial or career fates of millionaires. Honestly, I’m just sick of unfunny comedy being more popular than funny comedy. It’s that simple. Two & A Half Men is the most popular sitcom on television while Community struggles in the ratings. This is ridiculous and fairly embarrassing to God’s America in my admittedly kind of comedy snobby opinion, but so long as they’re both on for their respective fans to enjoy, fine.

Now, if Two & A Half Men wanted Community’s time slot? I mean, not just to go up against it on another network, but to actually kick Community off the air and in that very time slot instead show Charlie Sheen and Jon Cryer say horrible, unfunny things about women? Well, then I’d be up in arms! (By “up in arms,” I mean blogging on my less popular than seems possible bloggy blog here, I suppose.)

If Leno gets the Tonight Show back at the expense of Conan, it’s just another example of mediocrity winning. Now, maybe I should be happy about this, as it bodes well for my writing career, but, be that is at may very well be, I don’t want mediocre material rewarded. It’s not a major catastrophe or something important in a real world sense, no, but it isn’t completely trivial. Good humor is smart humor (even good dumb humor has intelligence behind it). The once funny Leno represents the dumbing down of comedy, specifically, American comedy. I don’t want America to be a dumb country of Jaywalkers.

Hopefully, at the very least, Conan will go to another network with his entire crew in tact and thrive. This is all very disappointing, though, just in the sense that quality doesn’t always prevail.

This is old… well, internet old. But it makes me laugh, and just in case my reader hasn’t seen it yet, I want to share… Because it makes me laugh. It makes me laugh way too much. One minor complaint, but I don’t want to spoil it, so I’ll complain below.

Don’t spoil the magic by reading my deep, insightful criticism of this near-perfect amalgam of comedy, R&B, country, and hot, hot sexiness… Watch that video up there, then read below… For reals, now.
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Okay, so this is a song chronicling the beautifully erotic love affair between Andy Samburg and an alternate-reality Reba McEntire. I wish it’d just gone on like this was just Reba, not some homeless dude that found a wig. Though I do kind of like the conflicting realities of the song… still, it’d be even more surreal if they just insisted this was the real Reba.

I’ve given this too much thought, I know.

Hi, reader(s)!

In an effort to entertain you more betterer and to write more, I now declare that I will post a longish (at least 600 word) blog entry every Monday. For those of you that read the late, great THE FOOTNOTE, these posts will be similar to my old “Pure Lard” column.

On days other than Monday, there will still be randomly unpredictable posts about movies or TV shows or comics or books or real life or whatever and the occasional YouTube video and miscellaneous fun link, too. But every Monday? Yeah. Original content about stuff and things.

Also, I like burritos.

Love,

D.J.

I need a watch.

For a few years now, I’ve been using my cellular telephone to tell the time, much like our ancestors used the sun and… shadows. This is usually a perfectly acceptable manner of time telling. My hands and wrists are unadorned with any jewelry — rings or bracelets (or whatever the masculine word for “bracelets” is… if that’s possible… “gauntlets,” perhaps?), and at some point in my life, a watch started feeling dangerously close to such a too-flashy-for-me accessory.

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